Remember the Final Day
by Avonlea Inspirations
Summary: You promised them you'd be there... but you had no intention of keeping that promise, did you? After all, a little white lie never hurt anyone.


**AN:** There are many, many stories on Susan. This is just my spin on a general concept. Although it isn't original, I hope you'll find it interesting, anyway.

**Canon manipulation:** For the purpose of this fic, all the Pevensie's are still living at home with their parents. It just worked better for this particular story.

**Disclaimer:** While my lawyers are in the process of digging up Lewis' remains, I can not safely say that I own any of this. However, when the DNA results come back positive, I shall be rid of disclaimers forever. In the meantime, it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

* * *

It's a strange experience, really, to sit in the dimly-lit room of a hospital and stare at the well-washed floor. It's a strange experience to have to twist your hands in your dress as you wait, and stare listlessly out the window. It's strange to hear the steady tick of the clock drumming its way into your memories.

It's strange. But, then again, there was nothing usual about today.

* * *

This morning (it seems so long ago) started out as one of such simplicity. Wake up, get dressed, smile sleepily as Edmund steals your toast, nod gracefully as Peter blathers on about Narnia, and Lucy, and that Pole girl. You're not really listening, but Peter doesn't need to know _that_.

You look around the table and frown at the dirty pair of overalls Edmund is clad in. Why does he look so tired? And why does he seem so happy?

"Susan, really," says Peter again, and you lift your head to assure him that, yes, you're aware of his presence; and no, you don't really give a fig for what he is trying to tell you.

"Yes, Peter," you answer sweetly, realising that he doesn't understand your actions. "What is it?"

You watch in slight amusement as he rolls his eyes, (silly boy) and then you offer him the jar of marmalade.

"Susan, I've been trying to tell you for the past fifteen minutes about what Edmund and I are going to do. Now, ever since Mum and Dad have been gone, you've been like a restless goat --" you can't help but bristle slightly -- "moping around the house, using the telephone constantly, buying who knows how much make-up, and --"

"Peter," you cut in, delicately, "what is your point?"

"We want you to come meet everyone at the station, Su. I feel that it is important."

You arch your eyebrow in what you hope is a pretty, delicate fashion, and turn your attention back to your toast. "Everything's important to you, Peter. Everything."

Silence. Edmund seems lost in his glass of milk (when did he start drinking milk?) and Peter is staring moodily at the tablecloth.

"But this is more then important, Susan. I can't explain it, really, but this is a matter of life and --"

Death.

You incline your head in his direction. His eyes are filled with a suspicious liquid. Peter Pevensie is actually crying. You feel a sudden pang of guilt, but put it down to indigestion. Really, you have nothing to be guilty about.

"I'm going to --" you falter slightly as he raises red-rimmed blue eyes. Shaking your head, you try again. "I'm going to Sally's house, and then to a movie, Peter," you say, ignoring the way his head now hangs in defeat. "I'll be back around two o'clock. Maybe then I will be able to join you."

Of course, you know that that is a hollow promise. You have every intention of staying far, far away from those who still believe in foolish childhood dreams. But Peter doesn't need to know that. After all, a little white lie never hurt anyone.

Peter looks up immediately, rises from his seat, and engulfs you in a hug. You feel a twinge of guilt once more. For some, strange reason you look over at Edmund. He is frowning. He knows that you don't intend to keep your promise.

_Stupid, observant Edmund._

You laugh gingerly, free yourself from Peter's grasp, and stumble from the room, frowning harshly at Edmund as you go. You clamber up the stairs and walk as primly as possible to your room. You shut the door (hard), and stalk to your unmade bed.

Why are you in such a rotten temper?

_Hormones. Of course. Let's blame it on them._

The next half hour you spend in brushing and curling your hair. It looks -- awful -- but you're not about to admit that. It's the latest style; of course it must look fantastic. The dress you plan on wearing is hideous, but, again, it's the latest style. It's beautiful. Your brush snags on a particularly tight knot, and your hair snaps as you tug it free.

_Everything is fine. Everything is dandy. _

You fluff out your freshly curled hair, slip into the hideous... gorgeous... dress, and look around aimlessly for your stockings. They're not in the hamper, nor are they in the drawers. Dropping down on to your knees, you feel around under the bed, looking for that elusive garment of nylon.

_Ah. Found it._

Pulling it out, you inspect in with careful precision, trying to ignore the snatches of conversation that drift through your open door.

"I'm telling you, Peter, Susan's changed. She's not..."

"Well. What are we going to do? We can't just...

"Lucy said..."

"Train will be in that station at..."

"...Narnia..."

_Darn it._

No, really, darn it. You found a hole.

Settling yourself comfortably on her ankles, you stare dolefully at the gaping hole, and try to remember how to darn a tear.

Several minutes pass. You're still thinking.

Oh, but of course, the common cure for all problems.

Buy a new pair.

Blatantly ignoring your not-quite-dead moral side, which is screaming at the indecency of going out with bare legs in such a scanty dress, you place high-heeled red shoes on your slim feet and admire the affect of crimson upon white.

_It isn't immoral_, you assure yourself, _it's stylish._

Casting an appraising glance upon your outfit, you quickly dust your face with powder, and apply deep red lipstick. A careful pluck of the eyebrows, a spot of mascara, and you're good to go.

No rouge.

It's too flamboyant.

Wincing slightly as your too-tight, too-high red shoes cut into your tender ankles, you grab your hand-bag and saunter into the hall, locking your bedroom door as you do so.

You don't even want to know what Peter's reaction will be when he sees you.

Shock, most likely, and a stern command to go back upstairs and change into some dowdy outfit.

Really, Peter is living in the past.

Stepping gingerly down the narrow staircase, which seems more narrow and more steep today, you perk up you ears, straining for any sound that will tell you where your brothers are located. You hear the steady, low thrum of a mature voice in the kitchen, probably using the telephone, and smile slightly, satisfied. If he's in the kitchen, you can sneak out the front door by passing through the living room.

You forgot about Edmund.

You're halfway across the carpeted, living room floor, when a soft sound of discontent halts your escape. You stiffen and turn towards the intrusion.

It's never a good idea to leave Edmund out of your equation.

"Susan." His voice is flat, lifeless, dead. His eyes turn towards you, an expression of displeasure kindling in his dark eyes. "What are you wearing?"

You flinch noticeably at the calm tone of his voice. Really, if he were just a little more accusatory, you could snap back. How are you supposed to deal with someone who's so collected?

"A dress," you state, trying (and failing) to keep the ire out of your voice.

"Peter hasn't seen it." It isn't a question, but a statement. Edmund knows that Peter would rather kill himself then let you wear something so indecent... I mean, fashionable.

"No."

"I'm going to get him."

"I'm late, Edmund," you whine, having no desire for a confrontation, "he can scold me about it later."

"Susan..."

Beat. Beat.

"You know that Peter doesn't like you wearing such things..."

The hot retort rising in your throat is stopped by his next comment.

"And I, I don't like it either, Su."

Su. He hasn't called you that for months. Without realising it, you turn to meet his gaze. His pleading, worried gaze. For a moment, just a moment, it feels as though your weakened brother-sister bond is as strong as ever.

Beat.

And the moment is over.

"Fine," you snap, turning as quickly as you are able on such flimsy heels, "I'll change."

Storming up the stairs once more, you dash to your cupboard and pick out an outfit of such horrid simplicity that it makes all fashionable tendencies in you gag.

It's disgusting.

But, if it makes those two, old-fashioned prats happy...

You really don't think it's so dreadful, but shame on your self-proclaimed socialite status if you'll admit that.

Casting your other dress to the floor, you throw the simple dress over your head, pull it down, wince as the fabric brushes against your sore ankles, and tie the thin sash around your waist. It's black. A terrible black. It stirs something within your chest and you want nothing more that to cry. All at once, you feel a horrible sense of foreboding.

Whoosh!

You're not in mourning. You shan't look as though you are. You tear off the dress and hang it neatly in your closet. Your eyes are stinging painfully, and you try to wipe it away with the back of your hand.

Red. That's what you need. A nice, cheerful colour.

Dragging a modest, dark red skirt out of the closet, you hold it against your body, using your free hand to fan it out. It's delicate, pretty, and (if your luck holds true) Edmund and Peter shan't be able to fault it.

* * *

"Ah, there you are," is Peter's cheerful greeting as you hobble down the stairs, one hand daintily grasping your handbag, and the other clutching the slim bannister as though your life depends upon it.

Stupid shoes.

"Are you sure you won't be late? I can drive y--"

"No, Peter," you interrupt with a false smile of merriment, "I've decided to take the bus."

"It's a long way to the terminal," states Peter dubiously, leaning against the bannister and looking up at you carefully, "and I don't think that those shoes are meant for long distances."

His eyes flicker down to the high shoes, and his frown becomes more pronounced.

"Peter!" Smile. Just smile. "I'll be fine. Don't worry, please."

A strange, unreadable look passes across his face as he closes his eyes. If you didn't know better, you'd say he looked tired and... _something_ else. You blink, waiting for him to speak.

"Just don't turn your ankle, Susan," he smiles, opening his eyes once more. Clear blue orbs crinkle into a grin as he straightens his back and waits for you to walk heavily down the remaining stairs.

Your answer is a very ladylike snort accompanied by a high-pitched, feminine, "I'm not ten years old, Peter."

"I know, Su."

Su. There it is again.

"Su?" you say primly. "You haven't called me that for a while."

"I know. Sorry."

"No," you hasten to reassure him, "I still like it. It's just that... you and Edmund are acting so strange this morning. Almost as though you were going to a funeral."

Your chest throbs as a feeling of repressed emotion makes itself know. Dread, sadness, guilt, pain.

It feels so... illogical.

Peter's expression is the look from earlier, only now it seems to have intensified. His eyes meet yours for a brief second before darting away.

"Haha," he laughs feebly, "we're just tired. We had to get some rings."

Blue eyes flicker towards you again, as though he were trying to gauge your reaction.

"Rings?" your tone is pert suddenly. "Rings?" you repeat.

Engagement, wedding, flowers, smiles... love!

You smile proudly. "Who's the lucky girl?"

He gives you a puzzled glance before his lips quirk up into a smile.

"I'm not getting married, Susan, and neither is Ed."

Oh. You feel yourself deflate.

"What are the rings for, then?" you inquire absently, looking at your nails and bemoaning the lost opportunity to paint them.

You can feel his hesitation, tangible and stifling, as he looks up at you. Almost as if he doesn't want to tell you. Almost as if he knows you won't believe him.

"They're magic rings, Su."

And he was right.

You laugh daintily, before giving him an incredulous frown.

"Really, Peter," you say, "aren't you a little old for fairy-tales? Isn't it time you grew up? First the Narnia business and now this. Next you'll be telling me that the rings lead to Narnia."

You laugh again, silently rejoicing in the superiority of _your_ mind that can look beyond such foolish fancies and focus on the here and now. The present reality.

Peter smiles, but there is no mirth behind the gesture. "Yes," he says, dully, "I might have told you that."

Shaking your head, you give another brittle laugh before placing your handbag comfortably on your right arm. You glance at the grandfather's clock over Peter's shoulder.

"Well, it's later then I realised," you say, willing the pain from your blistered heel to just vanish, "so I'd better be off. I'll see you tonight, Peter."

A hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a soft grip and halting your flight.

"Ed wanted to say good-bye, Susan," he says. For some reason you get the feeling that his words are meant to convey a deeper meaning.

Nodding dumbly, you pull your hand free and let it hang loosely at your side. Since when did Peter start acting cryptic? Always, ever since you were a small child, his emotions have been open and easy to read. Every action, every word seemed to grant an insight into his state of mind.

"Edmund!"

The clatter of feet upstairs and Edmund appears on the upper floor's landing.

"What is it?" he asks, breathless and worried.

"Susan's leaving."

Two words. Two simple words, but before they are even out, Edmund is by your side and you are engulfed in an impulsive hug.

"Bye." he says softly, his voice suspiciously thick, before letting go and darting into an adjoining room.

Since when did Edmund start acting impulsive?

Dismissing his strange behaviour from your mind, and smoothing your rumpled clothes absently, you give Peter a smile.

"I'll see you tonight, Peter," you begin, but his look of disappointment stops you.

"So," he says, "you're not coming to the station?"

Drat. You'd forgotten all about that.

"Oh, well," you backtrack, "of course I'll be there. Two o'clock?"

It doesn't even bother you that it has become so easy to lie through your teeth.

"Yes. Two o'clock. The train comes in at three fifteen."

"I'll be there," you say merrily.

After all, a little white lie never hurt anyone.

* * *

It had happened so fast. A simple phone call, a brief exchange of words, and your life had been turned on its head.

_"Is this Miss Susan Pevensie?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Miss Pevensie, there's been an accident."_

All you remember after that, really, is a command to come down to the local hospital, and the way the phone sounded as it collided with the ground.

So now, here you are, one small mortal among so many other mortals, all clamouring for answers. Shouting for names. Crying for the dead and dying.

You know nothing, yet. No one has told you anything. The uncertainty is killing you, and yet you're scared of knowing.

"Miss Pevensie?"

You start at the soft voice of the doctor standing before you, his white coat stained with soot and blood and his gloved hands shoved firmly into his pockets.

"Yes..."

"I'm afraid that..."

His following words are lost upon you, as you suddenly realise, with a dull and throbbing ache, that you will be needing that black dress, after all.


End file.
